Hitchhiking on the Hudson
The water is murky brown, and turbulent from the wake of boats zipping by. There are boats towing children on floating tubes and boaters loitering as people drop a fishing line in the water. There are jet skis galore, making circles in the water. And almost no sailboats. But most are mid-sized motorboats, shoving purposefully north or south.
As I paddle I look at the wisp of clouds in front of me and think: I don’t know anything about clouds. And yes, then I sing to myself, softly…
(I look up at home that I was looking at wispy cirrus clouds then later puffier cumulous clouds; I still, however, know nothing about love. I mean clouds.)
What I don't know about the Hooded Crow
The crow is a Hooded Crow, a bird that belongs in Eastern and Northern Europe but has, by some chance, ended up in Staten Island.
I feel a bit of relief, and pleasure in knowing it was still alive. Last weekend, Peter and I drove down to see the crow. I had not gone with enthusiasm.
Basha Kill Paddle
I grinned as he held the turtle up to identify it. Clearly Peter had spent his childhood scooping up turtles—that strike and capture took years of practice.
My camera had inconveniently died just moments after taking this first of morning picture so we couldn’t photograph the turtle. “Memorize this,” Peter said. The yellow line along the face, the edge of the shell, the shape of that shell. Later we matched this small, struggling catch to a stink pot, or the common musk turtle. It slid into the water and was off. Peter put the tips of his fingers to his nose. “Smell this,” he said, and I leaned over to take in the musky smell of turtle.
Peter and I were paddling through the over 2,000 acres that make up the Basha Kill Wildlife Management Area. It’s an area that draws birders in spring migration and we had been there to spot warblers in May. We were now back looking for marsh birds and to move about by kayak, not on foot.
Bicknell's Thrush
“Do you realize that there are only a few acres in the world where we could hear this bird?” he asked.
The Bicknell’s thrush is a geographically particular bird, nesting only in the Northeast of this country, and only at higher elevations. For a while, some thought it lived only on the summit of Slide mountain, the highest peak in the Catskills. It’s a bit more adventurous than that, taking to a few of the peaks in the mountains, but always over 3,500 feet. The Bicknell’s Thrush winters on Hispanola (the Dominican Republic and Haiti). It’s range map is not a swatch, but a few dots.
Since the bird sings at dusk and dawn, to hear it’s song we had to either get up extraordinarily early, and hike up a mountain, or we had to have a little overnight adventure. We chose the latter. Camping is not allowed over 3,500 feet in these mountains. But clearly others had camped here before us—trees had been cut down, and a fire pit held charred logs. But I didn’t see this as camping but rather as a nap in the open air. After all, we had no tent or stove. We had packed sandwiches for dinner, brought water and our sleeping bags. The heaviest piece of gear was Peter’s 12-pound camera. (All photos of birds here are Peter's.)